


be my white blood

by stilinskitrash



Series: gendrya one shots [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time, Friends to Lovers, One Shot, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18625864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskitrash/pseuds/stilinskitrash
Summary: She lost her father, lost her family, lost her home. She was cast into the cruel reality of life under royal rule instead of being amongst it. Along the way, Arya almost found a new family, in an orphaned boy named Gendry from Flea Bottom.(AU where soulmate marks exist, in the form of house sigils, and spans S1-S8)





	be my white blood

**Author's Note:**

> title take from White Blood by Oh Wonder!  
> i messed w the timeline a bit i think e.g. how old arya was at each plot point so just allow it pls and know that by the time the final scene happens she is 18 and it happens as it does in the show except with more because i do what i want xo  
> un-beta'd as usual bc im trash!!!!! trash queen i think

 

Arya remembered the moment her mark appeared on her the inner side of her wrist, dark and foreboding. 

It could’ve been anything. It could’ve been a simple circle, representing the common people. It could’ve been the lion of the Lannister’s, or the Kraken of the Greyjoy’s. It could’ve been blank, or even worse than that; it could’ve been her own Stark Direwolf, something not uncommon amongst families like the Targaryen’s.  

When the dark outline of a stag on its hind legs appeared on her wrist over night, Arya wasn’t sure how to react. Granted, she was only eleven, and couldn’t have cared less about marriage or fated soulmates. If she weren’t from one of the great houses, no one else would’ve cared either. 

She wasn’t that lucky.

Sansa caught her staring at it; she hadn’t even heard her sister enter the room, her mind cloudy except for the image on her skin. She realised too late as her sister gasped and reached to grab Arya’s wrist.

Her sister was silent, but she didn’t need to say anything. In two days, the king Robert Baratheon and his wife were visiting Winterfell. Although their intentions weren’t made clear by their parents, Arya and her siblings had been running through the possibilities. Sansa’s favourite theory was that Robert Baratheon was coming to arrange a marriage between their houses; between Sansa and his eldest son prince Joffrey.

Arya snatched her wrist back. “Don’t tell father.”

It was too late, though. The moment Sansa saw the Baratheon sigil she knew her sister had been thrown into a panic. There was no  _ way  _ Arya would marry prince Joffrey, but her sister was too blinded by her dreams of marrying a prince that she’d never believe her. It wasn’t long before her mother and father cornered her in her chambers.

“It’s not  _ fair _ !” she cried before they could say a word, “I won’t marry Joffrey, I won’t marry a Baratheon, I won’t  _ marry. _ ” Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she held them back and clenched her fists.

Catelyn’s face was soft and sad, and her father stepped forward and crouched to her height.

“And you won’t,” he stroked Arya’s hair gently. “Firstly, you’re still too young. Secondly, your mother and I want great things for you. What’s great for Sansa might not be great for you.”

“And what  _ is  _ great for Sansa? She won’t even tell me what mark she has!” 

Ned sighed, “Sansa sees it as a private thing, and that’s okay. Of course, we’d have liked for you to have that choice too, and I’ll be having a word with Sansa about that. But you don’t have to tell anyone, and if you want to hide it, we’ll help you do that.”

She realised with time that she didn’t really care if everyone knew, because she was going to do things  _ her _ way. It was just a mark. She would always have a choice. She mark just guided her in the right direction, but who was to say it really was right?If Arya was really fated to marry at Baratheon, her options were more than likely one of Cersei and Robert’s kids. Even from aged eleven, the prospect didn’t excite or amaze her.  Tommen was a baby; Joffrey made her blood boil and was practically already Sansa’s. She’d sooner have married Shireen or Myrcella than the two boys.

The day Robert Baratheon arrived and it was agreed that their houses would indeed join through marriage, Arya still freaked out. Her parents had agreed to keep her mark secret until she was older, but she spent the whole time the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s were at Winterfell making sure they never saw it. Although the mark usually appeared during puberty, for some it wouldn’t appear into late adulthood. There was no saying if any of the Baratheon children had the Stark sigil on their skin, not unless they disclosed it. 

Sansa became engaged to Joffrey Baratheon. Arya’s panic didn't cease at this news. Fate wasn’t kind. It wasn’t forgiving, and it wasn’t understanding. 

She lost her father, lost her family, lost her home. She was cast into the cruel reality of life under royal rule instead of being amongst it. Along the way, Arya almost found a new family, in an orphaned boy named Gendry from Flea Bottom, whilst pretending to be a boy.

On the long road to the Wall, Arya learnt how differently the smallfolk perceived their soulmate marks. Generally, they ignored them. Most of them had the mark of other smallfolk, and when that mark is just one circle on your wrist it’s a little harder to narrow down than the sigil of a noble house. Those who happened to hold a specific sigil wouldn’t shut up about it, Gendry grumbled as he explained it to her. 

“They parade it around like it makes ‘em rich or something, it’s stupid. And probably a mistake. I’ve never met anyone who had the mark of a house who actually married someone from one. Just cause some gods up there say it’s supposed to be so, doesn’t mean the lords and ladies down here will allow it.”

Arya chewed on the small piece of stale bread they’d been sharing. “What about you?” she asked with her mouthful.

Gendry grinded his teeth and stopped moving. She’d noticed that he kept his wrists covered. “I don’t care for it much, either.”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, “what’s your mark?”

He laughed shortly, “you first.”

She’d been hiding hers too whilst travelling towards the Wall, in fear that having a house’s sigil on her wrist would give her away as a noble born. Arya pulled down the torn fabric wrapped around her wrists and held up her arm for him to see. 

Gendry’s jaw went slack. “So you’re one of  _ them _ ,” he chuckled, “wouldn’t go parading  _ that  _ around here, if I were you.”

Roughly, she tugged the fabric back down. “Wasn’t gonna.”

She’d never intended to tell anyone about her true identity whilst travelling with Yoren, as he’d instructed, but the day the Gold Cloaks came searching for someone she’d panicked. After they’d left, without her but with intent to return, Gendry offhandedly mentioned that he’d met her father, not long prior to his death. He’d also figured out she was a girl.  _ Not such a stupid bull afterall _ , she’d thought bitterly, but if anyone were to know, she’d rather it be Gendry.

“My name’s not Arry,” she mustered up the courage, “it’s Arya, of House Stark. Yoren is taking me home to Winterfell.”

His body almost completely froze, and he turned to look at her as if she’d just spoken a foreign language. Something was ticking away in his mind, and Arya began to panic when he didn’t say something. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him, maybe it was a huge mistake.

But it wasn’t; Gendry kept her secret. He kept her secret all the way up until he was sold off to the Red Woman by the Brotherhood, and Arya watched part of her family be stolen away from her again.

It didn’t hit her right away that she felt something deeply  _ more  _ for him than just friendship, especially given that when they met she was merely eleven. Gendry Waters was stupid, and stubborn. Gendry Waters was kind, softer than any boy she’d met, and they’d looked out for each other. He gave her some of his food when she was still hungry, even if she tried to reject the offer from him. Every night, he slept closest to her, yet without touching her, like a comforting wall of protection. That was, until he was taken from her. 

She went on to lose more family, almost half her House, taken away. Miles away from Sansa and Jon, and unsure if Rickon and Bran were even still alive, she continued to forge her own path. This time, away from Westeros.

One day, whilst across the sea in Braavos, she thought she saw him. Her heart almost stopped in her chest, her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t Gendry, obviously. He was either a sea away or six feet under. But the memory of him—strong, muscled, soft bright eyes and dark hair—had a heat pooling in her stomach, unfamiliar and strange. She was fifteen, nearly sixteen, and suddenly she looked at boys differently, and definitely differently to how she felt about her brothers. She began to see his face everywhere. It was ironic, considering she was then learning how to change her own to someone different. On street corners, in bars, by the ocean, in passers-by, she saw his face again and again. He was a distant memory, and a token of her past.

Arya returned to Westeros, aged seventeen and scarred. She learnt that the Baratheon children had died and for the first time in many, many months, thought about her soulmate. She wondered what, and who, she was really destined for. She wondered if she cared. 

Maybe she was broken, and her mark was wrong. Some gods had fucked it all up, but the gods had also fucked up a lot of other things in her life. What was on her skin would never define her. She’d also returned to her homeland to a vicious war oncoming, with the outlook on survivors not very positive. Arya figured Westeros had more to worry about than soulmates when they could all be dead in a matter of weeks. 

She’d spent so many nights telling herself that she didn’t  _ need  _ anyone. Not even stubborn blacksmiths from Flea Bottom.

Not even when they appeared, alive, at her  _ home _ , and she couldn’t take her eyes off of him.

He had a new look. Shorter; cropped hair. Clean shaven, but covered in grime from the forge, where Jon had enlisted him to work. Stronger; with broader shoulders and bulging biceps. Older; scars littered his body, in a similar way to hers. He still kept the skin on his wrists covered. She wondered what he’d endured under the Red Woman, and where’d been all that time whilst she was across the sea. She felt the same heat upon seeing him that she had on the streets of Braavos, recalling his memory, except this time mixed in with elation that he was still here. He was still alive. 

When he saw her, for a moment he looked as if he were about to sweep her up into his arms and hold her tightly, and never let go. A part of Arya wished that would happen, the bigger, more dominant part of her stood still as he took her in. He didn’t move either. They’d spent so many days on the Kingsroad as equals, that to now be in a situation where they very clearly  _ weren’t _ seemed to throw them both off.

Somehow, they managed to slip back into their old banter. Arya caught herself watching him in the forge, watching him work at metal and steel and dragonglass, hammer away for hours in the heat of the forge. It had taken her months to reach Winterfell, and getting to spend time with Sansa and Bran and Jon again was a dream, but something kept drawing her back to Gendry.

More often than not, Gendry caught her watching him from the sidelines. He never questioned her, or hardly ever, he’d just smile and continue with his work. 

Gendry wasted no time making Arya a weapon when she requested. When they spoke, she was wildly aware of his body language, and their amount of eye contact. She wondered one night if it was flirting, and if she had a different relationship with her sister maybe she would’ve consulted Sansa about it.

Down in the stores, Gendry presented her the weapon she’d requested, crafted perfectly. If she’d learnt something from the Faceless Men other than how to become one, it was how to get better at acting. She managed to keep her emotions in check, throwing up a wall that had her coming off as casual, almost disinterested.

“The last time you saw, me you wanted me to come to winterfell.” Gendry spoke up, and Arya felt her chest clench at the memory. “I took the long road, but…”

He was trying to say something, something meaningful. He was saying  _ I’m here because you asked me, because you wanted me here.  _ Without Arya at his side, who knew were Gendry could have ended up? She’d inadvertently given him something to fight for; a side to take during the oncoming war.

She didn’t reply, and instead changed the conversation. Arya worried if she delved into their past she’d slip up and her emotions would get the better of her. “What did the red woman want with you?”

Gendry tensed at the mention of her, and Arya noted to tread carefully. They’d both been through shit, and both had the scars and nightmares to prove it. 

“She wanted my blood, for some kind of spell.” he waved it off flippantly, but he had Arya interested.

“Why your blood?” she twirled the double ended spear he’d made her around. It balanced perfectly. It was the perfect weight and size, and felt like a natural fit in her hands.

He held a long silence, and Arya almost thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. His guard was still up, even if he acted a way around Arya that she hadn’t seen with anyone else at Winterfell.

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s bastard,” he declared, his tone bitter.

Arya’s heart tried to leap out of her chest.

She could all but stare at him as he looked at the ground, unable to read his emotions about this news. Her mind whirred at a hundred miles an hour. Gendry was a Baratheon bastard. No, a  _ Baratheon _ . Arya grabbed her marked wrist instinctively, and she noticed his eyes flicker to where she’d moved her hand to.

“I didn’t know until she told me. She tied me up, stripped me down, and put leeches all over me.”

It sounded awful, and Gendry’s voice gave it all away. He was so far from her now, arms close by his sides, struggling to face her. Arya needed to break the tension that was brewing. He clearly didn’t want to talk about the Red Woman anymore, and she needed to know if he’d come to the same conclusion she was coming to now about her soulmate mark.

“Was that your first time?” she asked suddenly, taking him aback.

Gendry frowned and stammered, “Uh, yeah, I’ve never had leeches put all over me.”

She almost smiled despite it all.  _ Still a stupid bull, _ she thought endearingly.

“No, your first time with a woman.”

He looked up at her quickly, his eyes wide, and stepped forward defensively. “What? No, I—I wasn’t  _ with  _ her.” 

Arya placed the weapon he’d crafted her down on the side. 

“Were you with other girls? Before that, in king’s landing, or after,” she clarified. Gendry’s forehead was creased with confusion, but she knew he’d put the pieces together. He was too stubborn to say it, or maybe too afraid. He couldn’t find the words to answer her question. 

“You don’t remember?” she prompted.

Gendry gave in, “yes, I was.” He seemed nervous, embarrassed even. Why? He had no need to be. He was attractive, young, not tied down by engagements or marriage.

She pushed him further, “one? Two? Twenty?” There was something mildly fun in watching him squirm and flail. Arya wasn’t trying to be cruel; it almost felt like payback for the way he would tease and wind her up when they were younger.

“I didn’t keep count.”

That was laughable. Months on the streets of Braavos had taught her the ways of men. Even if Gendry  _ was _ one of the good ones, she’d seen their varying attitudes to sex, and never had she met a man who didn’t care enough to count. Some men were proud of their number, some men ashamed. Arya felt amused by it all. “Yes, you did.”

He sighed exasperatedly. They’d moved closer, close enough that Arya could reach out and touch him. She looked at the shapes of his face and realised she was able to pick out the parts of him that were familiar, the parts that looked like Robert Baratheon. Or at least, what Robert had looked like in the prime of his life. He had the Baratheon, dark hair, the eyes, the stature and bone structure that she’d seen before in other members of the house, and  _ not _ in Cersei Lannister’s children.

Arya remembered a conversation with her father she’d had many years ago.

_ “You will marry a high lord and rule his castle, and your sons shall be knights, and princes, and lords.” he told her, meaning to be comforting. _

_ Arya frowned instead, “no, that’s not me.” _

Gendry was no high lord, he ruled no castle. But he could. Arya and Gendry had the power to unite their houses in the way her father had always wanted, and had never achieved. House Stark and House Baratheon, joined, finally.

“Three.” his sullen and honest voice snapped her back to reality.

She took another step into his personal space. “We’re probably going to die soon,” the battle for Winterfell was present in her mind, “I ought to know it’s like before that happens. It is fated, afterall.” Arya turned her wrist over, laying bare the sigil of House Baratheon on her skin to him. Her fingers pulled down the fabric around his wrist, and she pressed the pad of her thumb gently across the direwolf that lay there.

“Didn’t peg you for someone who believed that shit.” he intended to come off as bantering, but she caught the breathiness in his voice, the tension between them growing thicker.

“Not unless it’s this convenient.” she joked, dropping his wrist.

Gendry’s eyes flitted between her eyes and lips. “Arya, I—”                                                                                 

She was wrapping her arms around his neck and slanting her lips across his before he could finish his thought. Their kisses were fast and sloppy, and Arya realized that she’d been wanting this for longer than she’d thought, and it felt  _ good. _ His hands were everywhere in a bid to keep up with her hunger. Not long after they’d gotten acquainted with each others mouths, Arya initiated them beginning to strip off their clothes too. The goddamn cold had them both wearing too many layers, so whilst they worked their lips stayed attached, as every moment she wasn’t touching him she ached. His head followed her when the split apart, like a puppy, she mused. 

Arya was faced with his bare chest, and she slid the palms of her hands along the hard skin there, the toned muscles. Her fingers raked down his back and across his shoulders as she drank him in, kissing his jawline down to his collar bones. His grip was tight on her waist, tighter when she tested gently nipping at the skin on his shoulder.

When she pushed him away, down onto the grain sack behind him, her breathing was heavy and laboured. He watched with awe as Arya worked to undo the ties of her blouse, until her chest was finally exposed for him to see.

The expression on his face changed, from desire to concern. He’d noticed the dark scars on her waist, but Arya wouldn’t have it ruin the moment. He could ask about them later; maybe she’d tell him the long story of how she came to return to Westeros, but she wouldn’t do that now. 

“I’m not the red woman,” she quirked a brow at him as he lay before her, half dazed, “take your own bloody pants off.”

Stripped down in front of each other, Arya didn’t feel her confidence falter. If she were with someone she had a different history with, maybe she would have, but being with Gendry felt as natural as anything. She spent a split second wondering about her hair down  _ there _ , and recalled the women in the whore houses of Braavos who’d trim their hair, because some men liked it when women had less. Then she realised she didn’t care. 

She descended on him, lips interlocking again, the sound of the wind howling outside the walls keeping them warm and safe. His hands roamed her sides, eventually moving down to grasp her arse as their kisses grew more intense. Arya was a little shocked when she felt his tongue inside her mouth, as it wasn’t something she’d ever heard much of before, but the feeling wasn’t  _ bad. _ Their mouths were slick against each other and hungry. 

“This okay?” he mumbled against her lips. She could feel the hard shape of his cock pressed against her stomach.

Nodding enthusiastically, she reached one hand between them to have a feel of it for herself. 

“ _ This  _ okay?” she smiled, stroking it experimentally.

Gendry hummed something indistinguishable, kissing her harder. She loved the idea of him falling apart for  _ her _ , that she had the power to do this to him. 

Just as Arya began to feel something warm and wet come from the tip, his hands grabbed her arse hard enough to lift her up onto the other side of his cock. She could really see it now, stood to attention and kind of angry looking. He’d stopped moving, she realised, after probably staring at it for too long. She’d seen a few cock’s, sure, but they were usually soft and chubby. This was very different.

“What?” she asked frustratedly.

“You’re sure you’re sure?”

Arya kissed her teeth, “ _ yes. _ ”

He reached one hand out to brush away some hair that had fallen in her face, and tucked it gently behind her ear. “It might—it could hurt you, your first time. I mean, assuming this is your first time.”

“Better get it over with, then.” she sighed crudely.

“Seriously, Arya, I don’t want—”

“Gendry,  _ please.  _ I can promise you that I’ve endured worse pain than your cock.”

She grinned as he flushed a deep red, but smiled all the same. Abruptly , his hands grabbed her arse again, but his time he brought her up to position her above his length. Slowly, keeping his eyes on hers the whole time, he eased her into it. A sharp sting made her cringe, and Gendry went back to being concerned. She pulled his head down to envelop him in a kiss as reassurance and distraction from the pain, and when he’d fully entered her it began to dull.

They established a rhythm, and when Gendry hit the right spot within her she felt sparks of pleasure. His hands massaged her breasts, which also sent shock waves through her body when his thumbs brushed over her nipples. Every sensation was new and fascinating, and Arya wanted more.

Arya’s hips rose up to meet his thrusts, and she gripped his shoulders to bring her closer and harder. Just as they’d begun to gain real momentum, Gendry slipped away, quickly laid out his shirt, and came onto it in thick ribbons. He finished, breathing heavily and looking dazed.

“Sorry, I just—I didn’t think you’d want me—”

She pulled at his hand for him to come back down to her. “It’s okay. Thank you.” and she kissed him, long and savouring.

“Was that okay? I know you didn’t, uh, finish.” he was being so awkward about it, even lay beside her, with one of her legs draped across his torso and her hand on his chest. 

“It was good.” she nodded, smiling against his lips as they kissed. “If we live long enough, maybe we’ll get better.”

Gendry raised his brows, “‘get better’?”

“Get  _ even _ better,” she corrected, with a roll of her eyes. 

He got up for a moment to retrieve his cloak and drape it across them for warmth. They lay on the bags of grain together, chatting idly, until Gendry drifted off to sleep. His curled against her, one arm hung over her waist. During his sleep, he’d grip onto her tightly, pulled her body closer to his. Arya stayed awake. She couldn’t sleep, there was too much on her mind.

The war, mainly, and how much she could stand to lose when the time came. She was also thinking about her father, and if he’d be happy about her union with Gendry. He had, after all, once met the bastard. Arya figured he would be; he’d always wanted the best for her. The worse reaction would probably come from someone like Sansa.

But for now, lit by dim candlelight, this was  _ her _ moment to bask in. She settled down closer to Gendry, and watched the flutter of his eyelashes as she let her hand trace the side of his face. Maybe fate wasn’t all that cruel, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> pls note that's not amazing revolutionary sex bc arya has no experience and i highly doubt that gendry is the sex king (unlike pod apparently) and that in the era got/asoiaf is loosely set in that pleasuring a woman was something all men thought to do or knew how to do so im jus being realistic!!!!  
> hope u all enjoyed this fic which ended up being twice as long as i planned lmao<3  
> edit: i mistakenly wrote that gendry has a stag mark but i meant direwolf and have corrected it... i’m boo boo the fool  
> follow my writing twitter [cvbeswaters](https://twitter.com/cvbeswaters) or on tumblr at [stacygwehn](https://stacygwehn.tumblr.com)


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